


tethered, flightless.

by Zaxal



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bondage, Dom/sub, Metaphysical Sex, Other, Shibari, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:08:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24014140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaxal/pseuds/Zaxal
Summary: He’s made the process as simple as possible, acquainting them both with his wings during bouts of both play and quite serious lovemaking. He’s drawn up graphs which are posted on the wall above the head of the bed, and they’ve gone over it again and again.He knows where Crowley’s going to touch first.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 81
Collections: Good Omens Celebration





	tethered, flightless.

**Author's Note:**

> For the Good Omens Celebration 2020 Day 2 Prompt: Contrast

_“Crowley.”_

The whimper crawls out of his mouth and molds itself to the shape of Crowley’s name, clinging desperately heavy as he shifts, testing the rope binding him.

Crowley hums something like a question, and Aziraphale hears the drag of the rope over the palms of his hands, through his deft fingers, and he sighs as Crowley gives a sharp tug. The rope that winds around Aziraphale’s body contracts, pressing into his skin, and Aziraphale tumbles headfirst into subspace, his lips parting with a gentle gasp.

“There we are,” Crowley purrs, nosing into Aziraphale’s curls, hands moving to secure the last knot to finish off the harness that criss-crosses in diamonds up the front of Aziraphale’s body. Crowley presses warmly against Aziraphale’s back, still fully dressed, damn him. His hands skim over Aziraphale’s skin, the touch broken by the ropes which creak as he arches towards Crowley’s touch. It heightens his awareness of them, both as restrictions and as decoration. Crowley traces a finger along the top of the harness, tickling Aziraphale’s collarbone on either side of the rope.

Aziraphale wiggles with a sigh, pressing back into Crowley who indulges him, mouth hot and possessive where it presses to his neck. Teeth scrape along his skin, and Aziraphale exposes himself for the taking, eyes drifting closed as he submerges himself in Crowley touching him, Crowley desiring him, Crowley taking ownership of him.

Crowley gives him the softest twirl, the room spinning around him before Crowley is kissing him again, gentle but demanding, their lips moving together in harmony. One of Crowley’s hands skates up his back, following the rope that maps his spine until it rests between the blades of his shoulders. “Careful, now, angel,” he murmurs, legitimate concern lying just under the tease. Aziraphale smiles as his wings manifest freely, neatly framed by the ropes and unimpeded as they spread wide and blindingly white.

Though they’d talked about this, Crowley still hesitates. Aziraphale’s eyes crack open, focusing intently on his face, but Crowley glances away from his wings quickly, frowning to mask that he’s been caught. “Ought to leave you tied up until I’ve cleaned them up.”

“Mm,” Aziraphale hums, neither agreeing nor protesting. “Perhaps after.”

Behind his shades, Crowley’s eyes dart to Aziraphale’s wings again. “After,” he repeats softly.

“It is called ‘aftercare’,” Aziraphale informs him with a smile.

“Shut up,” he says, pressing a kiss to the corner of Aziraphale’s jaw. “Are you sure you’re okay with—?”

“Yes, dearest.” His breath shudders in his chest, a pleasant anticipation tingling from his gut outward, raising the fine hairs on his arms. Certain aspects of this were, of course, Aziraphale’s idea, but Crowley simply wouldn’t be Crowley if he didn’t fret and question.

Crowley’s bed is dreadfully comfortable, and Aziraphale presses down into the mattress as Crowley claims his hands. He plants a warm, lingering kiss on each wrist before tying them together, more rope framing his knuckles, binding his fingers before Crowley anchors them to the bed over Aziraphale’s head.

He hesitates again, and Aziraphale hums, concedes, “If you don’t want—”

“I _do_ ,” he protests instantly only to flinch at himself for cutting Aziraphale off.

Aziraphale watches him steadily, an eyebrow raised and questioning though he doesn’t say anything more. Crowley cups Aziraphale’s face with one hand, the other trailing down to the nearest wing. Aziraphale feels the press of his fingers, too light and almost tickling until Crowley soothes a hand over his coverts instead. “I do,” Crowley repeats, more certain. Aziraphale smiles for him but lets his eyes drift closed once he sees more rope slither out of nothing to coil around Crowley’s hands.

They’ve never done this before. Anticipation crawls up his spine, tightening with the rope pressed against it, but nothing like nerves steal over him. He’s made the process as simple as possible, acquainting them both with his wings during bouts of both play and quite serious lovemaking. He’s drawn up graphs which are posted on the wall above the head of the bed, and they’ve gone over it again and again.

He knows where Crowley’s going to touch first. His hand smooths over the axillary feathers on Aziraphale’s right side, gently prying several of the feathers apart. Rope follows, looping a hitch around the base of his wing. Aziraphale swallows thickly as Crowley pulls it as snug as he can without damaging Aziraphale’s feathers.

“Alright?” he asks, his voice barely a murmur.

“So far,” Aziraphale agrees, flushing at the breathy quality of his own voice. Arousal thrums through his body without a focal point, nerves so sensitive that by the time Crowley takes his wing’s wrist in hand, Aziraphale is shivering. He moans gently as Crowley prods through his coverts, creating a hole just big enough for the rope to slink through again, forming another hitch and pulling it taut.

A whine crowds Aziraphale’s throat, and gooseflesh prickles on his skin as Crowley extends his wing, connecting the two separate hitches together with several knots before he anchors the wing the same way he anchored Aziraphale’s wrists.

Aziraphale can’t help it. He arches, wings flexing. The one unbound could almost touch the far wall if they hadn’t collectively decided half an hour ago that the concept of space was _meant_ to be flexible. The one that’s bound can’t pull outward, the looped ropes tightening and holding him immobile.

He feels the rope straining already, and that simply won’t do. With a thought, the threads become made of something sturdier, something nigh-impossible to tear.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley hisses as the coils in his hand weigh heavier, but Aziraphale silently extends his left wing, eyes hooded when they open and look at Crowley as if daring him to back out now.

Crowley’s watching him, barely daring to breathe. Aziraphale’s placed such a terrible amount of trust in him and burdened him with his safety. He is such a selfish, indulgent thing, but Crowley, who has equal access to their safeword, says nothing.

“Wanted to do it yourself?” he asks with a smile.

From this angle, he can’t see behind Crowley’s shades, but Aziraphale doesn’t need them to see the concern that’s written plainly on his face. “S’it uncomfortable?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says with a pleasant, breathless sigh. “Imagine when they’re both done up. I’ll be helpless.”

Crowley does manage a smile there. They both know Aziraphale’s never been powerless in his life, especially not with Crowley whose willpower to resist Aziraphale’s demands tends to crumble just minutes after he swings back into Aziraphale’s orbit.

Yet, Aziraphale does give the slightest frown. “I am sorry that I didn’t want to use magic for this bit.” He imagines it would be easier for Crowley if he could click his fingers and be done with it rather than lingering, thinking about Aziraphale being utterly defenseless with every precise movement of his hands.

“Think I’d rather if you did for me, when s’my turn,” Crowley confesses. “Over all at once, and we can get on with it.”

Aziraphale chuckles warmly. “Get on with what, dear?”

“Main event,” he mumbles, gently picking up Aziraphale’s free wing. “Whatever you wanted to do to me.” Another simmering wave of arousal crashes over Aziraphale’s body. “Like wanking off onto my feathers.”

Aziraphale scoffs, “Hardly ‘main event’ worthy! You’ve got such a splendid imagination; would you _please_ use it?”

The first loop ties around his wing. Another shiver crawls over his skin — this time, the rope is noticeably heavier, and something like fear settles in his chest and curls around his heart. Exhilaration and adrenaline course through his body, manufactured entirely without his permission. “You could spread me out in your back room,” Crowley murmurs warmly. “Utterly immobile. Ready for you to peruse whenever you feel like.” The second hitch loops around the wing’s wrist. “Could be hours after you put me up. Could be days.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs shakily, just imagining having him so fully at his mercy and on demand.

Crowley pulls the loops tight enough to tie the connecting knots, and Aziraphale stiffens, ancient anxieties overriding the logical knowledge that he’s safer now than he’s been in his entire life. His breathing stops on a dime, and a shimmer runs under his skin, power pushing at the boundaries of his physical form. Crowley’s fingers falter, and from the soft glow of Aziraphale’s skin, he can see momentarily behind the shades. Crowley is frozen, staring, slitted pupils darting here and there, desperately searching for any and every sign that Aziraphale might tell him to stop.

Aziraphale’s wing trembles, but he holds it bent as Crowley had started to tie it.

“Crowley,” he says. The walls shiver with it, swaying as if to fall in or open, as if the building were breathing around them. “We can stop if you like,” he says, mercy and kindness and grace emanating from the quicksilver brightness of his own eyes, from his tongue which has blessed humanity for as long as they have existed.

Sometimes — not often, mind, but more than once in recent memory — Crowley gets so deep inside his own head that he forgets. He sees Aziraphale the puttering bookseller, the indulgent hedonist, the clumsy and kindly gentleman, and he _forgets_ that Aziraphale is ancient and powerful. He forgets that every liberty taken is something Aziraphale has permitted, has given to him as freely as he did once give away his sword.

He forgets that Aziraphale, unfolded to his fullest extent, could subsume the entirety of the Milky Way in a blaze of sublime glory that would move any human who saw it to shrieking in tongues that haven’t yet been spoken.

Aziraphale reminds him. Both because Crowley needs to remember and because he can’t stand being coddled in this certain way, where Crowley seems to think that he could break Aziraphale on accident.

“May I?”

His body’s hands are still bound, but countless others are touching Crowley. Aziraphale has cupped his face, rubbed over his shoulders, pulled his thighs snugly against Aziraphale’s hips. Another set of fingers alight on the legs of his shades, and Crowley whimpers, “Pleassse.”

“My darling,” Aziraphale murmurs, and the words weave themselves into the walls in every language Aziraphale has known. There is emphasis, unintentional but present. The first word lingers longer than the second: my, me, mine. He claims Crowley somewhere beyond their bodies, beyond this plane of existence, where they are endless.

Aziraphale pulls his shades off, but as Crowley’s eyes meet his own, he feels a desperate tug on that other plane. Instead of ropes, he is tied up in unending, freezing coils. Crowley has caged him thoroughly, manifesting more of himself as both of their forms tangle and tease towards the event horizon. There is a desperation there, a need to please that Aziraphale can feel like a prayer, accompanied by a lingering poison, a fear of too much, too fast, too many mistakes to forgive.

“You could never,” he promises fiercely, enfolding around Crowley in turn until they are hurtling through space entwined beyond recognition.

“Now,” Aziraphale says as gently as he can. “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” Crowley confesses like it’s a failing on his part.

They settle reluctantly back into their bodies though Aziraphale can imagine that the texture of the rope is now smooth scales, caressing him as much as confining him. When Crowley picks up his wing again, he ties the knots handily and anchors the wing, leaving Aziraphale spread out beneath him

“Someone’s sake, angel,” Crowley blesses under his breath.

“You like it?”

Crowley’s fingers dance along his feathers, sensation tickling down Aziraphale’s spine and sending another helpless flash of heat out over his body. “Yeah,” he says, mouth dry and voice straining under the weight of it. “I… _fuck_. Yes.” His nails skim up and down the vane of his feathers, pressure writhing deliciously down Aziraphale’s bound body until all he can do to relieve it is twitch his feet. “Does it feel…?”

“Marvelous,” Aziraphale says. His mind is already racing to far-flung futures, where they’ve done this so many times that asking for more won’t overwhelm Crowley so intensely. He’s thinking of the fun they could get up to with black candles — with Crowley pretending to cast dastardly curses on him while really laying layer after layer of protection on top of Aziraphale. He’s wondering how it might look, the study in contrast with black rope, black wax, Crowley’s charcoal sheets under his pale, soft skin.

But that is some ways away.

For now, he breathes a single command: “Let me feel more.”

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on [tumblr](https://zaxal.tumblr.com/)!


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